by Stella Riley
But once the thankfulness had worn off, Celia began to realise that, in order to have the wedding before Richard’s departure, the guest-list must inevitably be small for there was not enough time to let everyone know. She came to this depressing conclusion when the two families were gathered together at Thorne Ash - ostensibly to discuss the wedding but in fact seeming to talk of nothing but the recent events in the north.
‘And the terms of the truce?’ Richard asked Lord Wroxton.
‘Unfavourable. Until such time as the peace is concluded, the Covenant army is to continue to occupy the six northern counties and be paid eight hundred and sixty pounds a day.’
‘My God!’ breathed Eden. ‘Has the King uncovered a gold mine?’
‘London will help,’ said his lordship repressively. ‘And, in the meantime, the Commissioners of both parties will transfer their discussions to Westminster so that Parliament may be consulted over further terms. Your department, Richard – and I think you’ll find it a time-consuming business.’
‘Yes. Well, it rather looks as though we’d all have been saved a lot of time, effort and expense if a proper peace had been arrived at last year,’ said Richard dryly. ‘However. Let’s hope His Majesty has learned from his mistakes and will permit us to do better this time.’
There was a slightly uncomfortable silence before Celia took advantage of it to say tightly, ‘Forgive me … but I thought we were going to decide about my wedding?’
Gervase relaxed and tapped her cheek with an indulgent finger.
‘And so we are, my dear – so we are. Now, let’s see. It’s Wednesday today and Richard has to be in London for the opening of Parliament next Tuesday. It doesn’t give us much time, does it? But everything must be pretty well in train by now … so how will Saturday suit you?’
‘Very well indeed, sir,’ grinned Eden. And, reaching for Celia’s hand, ‘What do you say?’
‘Oh – yes. Of course. But it’s just that no one will come,’ she said wistfully. ‘And I did so want everyone to be there.’
Eden nodded understandingly and squeezed her fingers.
‘Some of our friends and relatives will get here if we send out messengers immediately.’
‘Of course they will,’ affirmed his lordship jovially. ‘You just leave it all to your new father and myself. You’ll be amazed what we can achieve when we put our minds to it.’
‘And failing that,’ murmured Kate dulcetly, ‘you can always postpone the wedding. Again.’
* * *
But that, of course, as Kate confided later to her mother, was too much to hope for. And so it was that on Saturday morning she pinned a resolute smile on her face and accompanied Amy to Far Flamstead to help prepare the bride for her nuptials.
She hadn’t expected to enjoy the occasion and she did not enjoy it. Indeed, within an hour her smile had turned distinctly brittle and she was finding it necessary to keep her jaws clamped firmly together. Celia – who was never at her best in purely feminine company – was flown with nerves and inclined to be snappish. She carped incessantly at Ruth Radford over the gown of shell-pink silk that Kate, looking with a new and critical eye, could find no fault with; she had her maid running up and downstairs to bring her word of which guests had come and which had not until the poor girl was almost purple and Kate feared she might have an apoplexy; and then, when they tried to sew on the bride-favours of rose and silver ribbon, she twisted and turned, trying to peer out of the window, complained that Kate’s stitches were too tight and her needle virtually piercing the flesh … and ended by slapping little Abigail Radford’s face.
It was the last straw. Watching the imprint of Celia’s fingers flame against the girl’s white cheek, Kate unlocked her tongue to say bitingly, ‘Well, well … the perfect picture of a bride on her wedding day. I’m sure Eden would have been entranced.’
Celia flushed and twisted her fingers together, looking slightly abashed.
‘I didn’t mean it. It’s just that I’m nervous – and the girl is clumsy.’
‘She’s thirteen years old and doing her best – as are we all,’ returned Kate coolly. ‘And it would help if you stopped worrying about who is downstairs and stood still for five minutes.’
For a moment, blue eyes met green. Then, her expression hardening, Celia said, ‘Very well. But for heaven’s sake get on with it or we’ll be late.’
Inevitably, they were late – but only a little, for Kate had anticipated it and done her best to speed everyone up. She herself had changed in record time into the elegant silver-green satin she’d bought in Cheapside and managed to get Amy into her new primrose taffeta rather more quickly than anyone would have believed possible. Then, with no sign of the tantrums and tensions that had been present upstairs, the bride’s party made its way out into the pale autumnal sunshine and crossed the courtyard to Far Flamstead’s cold, ornate chapel.
It was fuller than Kate had expected, many guests seeming to have managed to arrive with barely an hour to spare – but it was scarcely the major social event for which Celia had so plainly hoped. Kit and Venetia Clifford were there with Sir William Davenant, and the Drydens had come from Canon’s Ashby; but there was no representative from the King and most of the other local gentry such as Viscount Saye & Sele, Lord Northampton and Lord Brooke were notable by their absence. Much too busy in London, getting ready for the Parliament, supposed Kate as she followed Celia demurely down the aisle. And then she felt all her muscles go into spasm as she caught sight of Luciano del Santi.
He was dressed in his customary black and sitting beside Toby, his gaze resting expressionlessly on Celia. Kate swallowed, managed to attract Toby’s eye and grinned as she passed him. Then they were behind her and she strove to put them out of her mind, fixing her eyes on Eden’s elegant tawny-velvet back in a bid to concentrate on the ceremony.
Afterwards, she could never decide whether it had lasted for hours or merely minutes. Most of her memories of the occasion were blurred and insubstantial, frosted with the coldness of her feet on the marble floor and the ever-present desire to turn her head. But other moments were set immutably in her mind like flies in amber; the cloying scent of lilies and perfumed candles … the low clarity of Eden’s voice repeating his vows … and the suddenly terrifying finality of it all.
‘Forsaking all others … so long as ye both shall live … to have and to hold from this day forward … till death us do part.’
Kate shivered. Would it be like this – would she feel like this on her own wedding-day? For it would come eventually, she realised. But who would be standing beside her at the altar? And did love mean that you could say those terrible words without fear? She didn’t know. Eden’s russet clashed subtly with Celia’s pink silk. Kate hoped it wasn’t an omen.
Outside, the light was dazzling and the solemnity of the last hour dissolved into a counterpoint of laughter and chattering voices as everyone made their way back to the house for the wedding-breakfast. Kate found herself walking beside Francis – resplendent in crimson satin with a wide lace collar and carrying the traditional bride-day gloves, embroidered and bestowed on him by Celia to mark his role as groomsman.
‘Wondering when it will be your turn?’ he asked.
She gave him a forbidding stare and said nothing.
He laughed. ‘I don’t think you need worry. If I read the signs aright, Kit might be yours for the asking. Or, if the prospect of becoming Lady Clifford doesn’t appeal, you could always wait on the chance of having me.’ He paused, his gaze travelling appraisingly over her. ‘It’s not as unlikely as you might suppose. You’re beginning to show promise of developing that certain sort of something one doesn’t see too often – though why I should find that surprising, I can’t imagine. For you never were exactly in the common way, were you?’
Kate stopped walking and met his mischievous glance with one of acidic kindness.
‘You really ought to stop your tongue by-passing your brain,’ she informed him. ‘I
t will get you into trouble one of these days.’ And she walked off to join Venetia Clifford.
Inside the house, hilarity was already setting in as all the young men and one or two of the older ones, jostled to capture a knot of rose and silver ribbon from Celia’s gown, carelessly getting in the way of servants who were trying to ensure that everyone had wine. Then they all sat down to a gargantuan feast consisting of every delicacy known to the Gallic genius who ruled Lady Wroxton’s kitchen. Kate located her mother’s eye between the tail-feathers of a panoplied pheasant and detected a hint of faintly hysterical amusement before her attention was once more claimed by Francis. She could not, she discovered, see the Italian at all. An immense Chantilly cream topped with candied violets was in the way.
Finally it was over. Toasts were drunk, speeches made and good wishes flowed through a sea of bawdy jests and hiccups. Then they all rose, some less steadily than others, and trooped into the gallery for the dancing. With rather more grace and confidence than had been his a year ago, Eden led out a now radiant Celia while Kate followed stoically behind, doing her duty with Francis. The musicians, lovingly culled from amongst Banbury’s best, scraped and blew with a will and the noise level rose by several decibels.
A little later, Kate found herself partnering Mr Clifford but, after one lung-cracking attempt at conversation that ended in laughter, they gave up trying to talk and contented themselves with the more energetic pleasures of the dance – during which Kate still managed to notice the brief, glacial exchange taking place between Lady Wroxton and the Italian. Later still, she escaped unseen to the cool, dark air of the walled garden and from there – finding it inhabited by a pair of entwined but mercifully unidentifiable shapes – to the edge of the park.
The glimmer of bonfires and the strains of lusty singing drifted up from the Home Farm, where Lord Wroxton’s tenants celebrated with ale and a roast ox or two. Leaning against a tree and attempting to thrust errant pins back into her straying hair, Kate reflected that no such division would be made at Thorne Ash and that tomorrow their own people would flood into the house to welcome the new bride home.
‘Salve, Caterina,’ said a disembodied but instantly recognisable voice out of the darkness. ‘It is you, I suppose? Mistress of awkward moments and my own personal bloodhound?’
‘Yes.’ Kate realised that he must have been there all the time and wondered, vaguely, why she wasn’t more surprised. She also wondered how he managed to turn her name into four seductive notes that seemed to melt everything inside her.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Luciano del Santi unexpectedly. ‘I’m tired of being civil and far from feeling gallant. Fortunately, you and I have no need of either one.’
Her eyes searched for him amongst the shadows but could not find him. Tiny bubbles of laughter formed in her veins, gathered themselves together and escaped.
‘Oh lord,’ she said weakly. ‘You’d better mind what you say. For all I know, the place may be crawling with eavesdroppers.’
‘So it may. Though I’d guess that most of them are otherwise engaged.’ There was the ghost of a smile in his voice and, when he spoke again, it was from much nearer at hand. ‘What brings you out here? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
Kate peered through the gloom and distinguished the white blur of his face.
‘I didn’t follow you – if that’s what you were thinking.’
‘Another hope blighted,’ he said cheerfully. And then, ‘Have you spoken with Tobias yet?’
‘Barely. But he seems very happy.’
‘That surprises you?’
‘Not especially. It’s what he wanted, after all.’ She paused and then asked randomly, ‘Do you always use his full name?’
‘Yes. He persists in referring to me as Mr Santi – which I dislike – so I retaliate by calling him Tobias. To my face, of course, he calls me Sir.’
Kate had no difficulty understanding how that might happen. There had been moments when she’d almost done the same thing herself. She said, ‘How is he getting on?’
‘Rather well, as it happens,’ he replied, for once without either mockery or levity. ‘I have hopes of him. But of course it wouldn’t do to tell him so just yet – a fact which I must remember to mention to your father before we depart for London on Monday.’
‘You’re travelling together?’
‘Indeed. You have some objection?’
‘No. I just wondered where you’d be staying until then. I don’t somehow think that Lady Wroxton will be offering you a bed.’
‘You do keep your eyes open, don’t you? But you’re right, of course. I’m persona non grata – and will therefore be your parents’ guest at Thorne Ash. You and I ought to be able to co-exist peaceably for a mere twenty-four hours, don’t you think?’
Kate opened her mouth on a withering retort and then let it die unspoken. He was baiting her again but it didn’t matter. Tomorrow, in the light, he would doubtless disturb her as much as ever; but just now, in the dark under this tree, he was the only companion she could have tolerated. Unfortunately, however, there were still duties to be performed and so she said reluctantly, ‘I’ll have to go. I’m supposed to help make Celia ready for bed.’
‘Christ. More ritual crudity?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The traditional bedding of the bride and groom,’ he said derisively. ‘A time for the jests to get coarser and more banal … and the perfect way, it seems to me, to strip the romance from anyone’s wedding-night.’
Kate felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘It – it’s the custom.’
‘It’s abysmal. Take a good look at it tonight and see if your brother appreciates it. Somehow, I doubt he will. And you might also care to spare a thought for how you’ll feel when you’re at the centre of a similar circus. If you’re fortunate enough to be in love with your new husband, I imagine you’ll want only to be left alone with him so that he can put his arms around you. If not, the whole business of going to bed with him will probably be frightening you silly. Either way, a whole tribe of people having fun at your expense is probably that last thing you need.’
‘You’re probably right. But I wish,’ said Kate flatly, ‘that everyone would stop assuming I’m either eager or likely to be married any minute. I’m not.’
‘No?’ His laughter was so soft it scarcely reached her. ‘But you will be. Given time, you will be. Doubtless Giacomo would say that you haven’t met the right man yet.’
‘Giacomo ought to set up as a marriage-broker,’ she said shortly, turning back in the direction of the path. And then, smiling, ‘Who knows? He might even be able to find a bride for you.’
‘Anything is possible.’ His reply drifted after her through the trees. ‘But some things are, to say the least of it, unlikely.’
* * *
The scene in the bridal chamber turned out to be very much as he had described it, decided Kate unwillingly a little later on. They brushed Celia’s hair and arrayed her in an embroidered night-rail of the sheerest lawn and counted up all the pins from her clothes so that none might be left to bring ill-luck. Then they arranged her against the pillows as though she were a doll and waited, with much sly giggling, for the groom’s party to arrive.
Kate kept out of the way and looked curiously at Celia. If she was shy or nervous or embarrassed, there was no sign of it – only an unmistakeable glow of anticipation.
How strange, thought Kate. Perhaps she does love him after all.
Then there was a surge of noise and laughter and Eden was washed in on a tide of boisterous well-wishers.
Amongst them all he was the only one who was not flushed with wine but he appeared perfectly composed and seemed to be taking the ribaldry in good part. Had it not been for the Italian, Kate would not have questioned the fact that he was enjoying himself; now, however, she found herself searching his eyes and finding in them a hint of rigidly controlled distaste. And looking round at the rowdy gathering with their overtly blatant innuendoes and
suggestive glances, she did not blame him for it.
Eventually, though, it was over. Kate was jovially bullied into sitting with Amy on Celia’s side of the bed for the purpose of tossing a posy over their shoulders at the bridegroom to determine their own marriage prospects. Amy’s landed squarely on Eden’s chest. Kate made sure hers didn’t and managed, instead, to hit Kit Clifford on the nose – which turned out not to have been such a good idea after all. Then everyone wished the bridal pair goodnight and flooded back down the stairs to continue the celebrations.
* * *
As soon as they had gone, Eden got up and bolted the door. The friendly bawdiness of the last half-hour was still echoing through his mind and the formality of the great bed seemed suddenly all wrong. He turned slowly to smile at Celia and wondered how best to begin.
‘Well, Mistress Maxwell …?’
She dimpled at him. ‘Sir?’
He gestured towards the cosy hearth with its cheerful blaze.
‘Will you come and take a glass of wine with me?’
It was the right instinct. Celia slid from the bed and approached the fire; then, accepting the wine, she said provocatively, ‘And what toast will you make that hasn’t already been drunk?’
Eden looked at her, his breath catching in his throat. The firelight danced through the embroidered shift, haloing her body in gold. He said, ‘I don’t know. You are so beautiful that I can’t think of anything else.’
She smiled at him, perfectly satisfied.
‘Then you may drink to that – and I to the hope that you’ll always find me so.’
‘You need have no fears about that.’ And, touching his cup to hers, he drained it and put it aside.